


You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect

by deanlovinglesbian (salopette)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Dean Winchester gets happiness, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Dean Winchester, Trans Dean Winchester, i mean just like regular killing people in spn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salopette/pseuds/deanlovinglesbian
Summary: "Dean doesn’t believe in God, or destiny, or any of the bullshit Freud said - and especially not all that incestuous crap. He loves his mom and she’s beautiful, but he doesn’t want her like that, he’s not that kind of sexual freak. Still, the thing about taking the father’s place? He can understand that."- Childhood memories are coming back to Dean after John's death. Pieces of what was and what could've never been, tied together with barbed wire, and cutting his skin from inside. He can't look away as they draw the perfect abuse picture and he won't be able to until he figures his way out.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes it's 2021 and i'm still in love with Dean Winchester  
> my boy deserves better writing (that is: not being written through a youngest sib pov) so i gave it to him :)

**_December 2011_ **

Dean doesn’t believe in God, or destiny, or any of the bullshit Freud said - and especially not all that incestuous crap. He loves his mom and she’s beautiful, but he doesn’t want her _like that_ , he’s not that kind of sexual freak. Still, the thing about taking the father’s place? He can understand that. 

For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many

**_January 1982_ **

The house seems to come alive, gently allowing the floor to crack and the wind to crash into its windows to wake Dean up. At first, Dean refuses. He keeps his eyes closed, as if another voice was fighting against his home’s - something more powerful than the things that can be built on Earth - soft whispers reunited in a simple warning - _don’t_. But something breaks downstairs, and the murmur leaves defeated. 

Clear voices follow and Dean groans. It’s not the first time his sleep has been broken by his parents’ fight, but each night it’s interrupted means a nightmare is going to wait for Dean once he’s back asleep. In the morning he pretends it never happened, even makes up some dream about candy and the school he will enter next year - he can’t wait - but they never discuss whatever is happening when the sky is dark. They don’t discuss what happens when the sun is up either, after all. 

Usually Dean only shows up during the day. Just after his dad has stormed off to the nearest bar, he walks to his mum and puts his arms around her neck. He pets her hair like she does to him when he’s hurt, and he hopes her pain leaves just like his always heals. But tonight, he gets up. He opens his door carefully and stands on tiptoes toward the stairs. He hears glass meeting the floor and he stops there, sits on the first step and leans to see below. He recognizes the blue pieces spread just there - it’s his mom’s favorite vase, one John doesn’t like much. 

His mom is crying, so Dean takes a deep breath - tries to remember what his dad says ; to be strong, to be brave, to be a man - and he walks down the stairs. He didn’t put on any socks so he tries his best to avoid the glass - when something pricks his feet, he keeps going. His heart is pumping in his chest and he thinks he’s terrified. It isn’t an uncommon feeling, but tonight there is something twisted in his guts too, while he remembers the hushes which told him to stay in bed. But he can’t. Not when his mom and his dad are shouting at each other, and his mom is crying. It’s his family - he can’t ignore that. 

When his dad turns back and sees him, Dean dares a smile. Just a tiny sign to say “it’s okay”, to say “we can all calm down”, to say “let’s talk about it”. He looks at his mom to give her reassurance, too, but he doesn’t see the slight relief he usually finds in her eyes when he joins after a fight. Something is different tonight. He doesn’t know what. But he just wants everyone to be happy, to go to bed, to wake up tomorrow feeling better, and to celebrate his birthday. 

But his mom is still tense. And his dad doesn’t reply to his smile. Dean won’t be able to remember how it happened, nor exactly the look on both his parents' faces, nor the way it hurts when his hands fell on broken glass. Even therapy won’t make him see it or make sense of the events leading up to it. He will remember, however, the feeling - the intense fear - which filled all his body when his dad slapped him for the first time.

They don’t talk about it in the morning. They celebrate Dean’s birthday - eat cake and take pictures and smile. The few days after that, his mom is particularly nice with him but behind every one of her touches there is something distant, something missing - like something broke. Dean knows it’s his fault - maybe he became too old, maybe he should have stayed in bed that night. His dad brings flowers for a while, kisses his mom in the kitchen, tells Dean this marriage is everything to him, and he hopes one day Dean can have a woman as amazing as Mary Campbell. Everything is better. Until next time. 

  
  


**_April 2007_ **

John’s journal is spread on the small table, fighting for more space with the now extra-cleaned guns and the soon-to-be rock salt bullets when Dean slides into the shitty wood chair. He’s carefully trying not to spill any of his coffee nor to burn his fingers as he stares at the mess, and finally he doesn’t think twice when he closes the journal to use it as a coaster. Now he can get back to work. 

He drove off to the city two days ago when he found the usual strange deaths, hidden in a newspaper: no break in, no weapon, only a lot of blood in a beautiful house for the second time in a month. He easily fell back into the method of working a case alone and it was no trouble to figure out whose vengeful spirit had been so unloved they started killing innocent families.

In the last months - since John’s death and since Sam fucked off who-knows-where - Dean has spent many days as a puppet, following the only routine he’s ever learned. Yet alike Pinocchio he was now struck with the curse of thinking and experiencing empathy. 

Who knew what this Oliver went through? Maybe he was the innocent one. 

Dean won’t spend more time thinking about it, though. He knows where the guy is buried, and he will burn and salt him tonight. As one does. 

He’s putting his jacket on when Bobby calls - there was a sight two states from where he is. His body freezes - momentarily forgets where he is and what he’s doing. Bobby doesn’t say a name, doesn’t even take the time to say “hello”. He says: “he’s been seen.” It’s enough for Dean’s heart to start racing and he has to take a deep breath before he can answer.

“I’m finishing this job tonight and I’ll be on the road. Meet you after?”

“You better. Take care of you, son.”

  
  


**_October 1982_ **

Then something switches. No more screams, no more breaking, no more slaps. Dean doesn’t even remember the last time his dad raised his voice at his mom. After his mom has read him stories and tucked him to bed, now the house stays silent and his bed warm until morning. He doesn’t know exactly what changed, and he first thinks it’s him. After all, he has listened to everything his dad had said lately - even cut his hair, like his dad told him to, so as to not look like a girl - and while his dad is working he waits patiently and takes care of Mary. He’s being a good son. So that’s why John hasn’t broken any of his toys in a few weeks. 

That’s why he can sit at the kitchen table while his mom is baking pie and his dad is watching TV, and he can tell them about his day at school. Dean is playing with two cars while he narrates the whole day, from getting breakfast to leaving the house, to reaching the school’s doors. A new kid joined the class and he sat next to Dean, so now they’re friends. They played in the yard during breaks and Dean told him about the Impala John drives which is the best car, and the kid, Martin, said his dads-

John’s glass drops. It doesn’t break, but the whiskey is spilled on the floor. Dean gets up and brings a towel. But when he gets back to his seat he feels it again - the twist in his guts. He tries to tell his story again but Mary sshs him and tells him to go play outdoors. It’s cold, but Dean puts a coat on and leaves. 

Dean has forgotten his car toys on the table so he wanders around in front of the house - bored. Usually he would ask the kid next door to play with him, but he got into a fight with him yesterday - the boy said Dean was a baby for believing in angels, and so Dean punched him. Weirdly enough, Mary was pissed but John didn’t scold him for that. Maybe being a good man means sometimes you can punch people if they deserve it. 

When Dean comes back an hour later his parents are setting up the table for dinner. He doesn’t know where they put his toys, but he doesn’t ask. They are both murmuring things to each other and smiling, and for a moment Dean was so sure he would end up having dinner with his mum alone that he’s relieved to feel how softly the house is breathing. 

  
  


**_June 1983_ **

The sound of the main door closing is still ringing into the walls, but none of the people inside seems to take notice. Mary is deep into her chair with the little Sam, and John is bringing her a baby’s bottle while he talks about how such a strong man his son will grow up to be. 

A few minutes ago Dean was with them in the living room, asking when he’ll be able to play with Sammy and show him his cars and the plush they bought for him - Dean picked it. But John said Mary was tired and Dean should speak quietly, then John spilled milk in the kitchen when Dean tried to help and he said he was in the way. So Dean leaves. 

He gets it - he does. He remembers the few last months, just before Sam’s birth, and now all is clear. 

Sitting on the sidewalk, one memory stands out; that time at dinner when Dean reached out for more pasta and John joked, said he should leave some for his mom and his sibling. Mary served him anyway, but the spaghetti tasted bitter in Dean’s mouth - like it wasn’t his, like he was eating away his sibling’s health. Right now, Dean feels the same way. Something is rough inside his throat and he knows he did wrong. He still can’t pinpoint what exactly.

But he’s not sure it matters anymore, because now his parents have the perfect son, and Dean will do everything he can to let it be that way. So when he kisses Sammy good night he always makes sure to thank him for bringing peace into his home.

_**September 1983** _

First day of school after the summer sure is rough on Dean, and he hates it when Mary drops his hand in front of the class’s door and smiles at him. He holds his teddy bear close to his chest and doesn’t look anyone in the eyes for the first few hours - like he did his very first day. It takes until Thursday for him to readjust to the other kids and to the way these walls are protecting them all - but when he does he feels better than he had the last two months. 

He doesn’t tell his parents _that_ at dinner though, because he doesn’t want to break their heart. He says it’s nice to see his friends again, even though Martin moved out and isn’t here anymore. He doesn’t say he felt more at home outside of here than he does in his own room, because there are darker whispers telling him it’s wrong and better unacknowledged. 

Even when John asks “You want to go to work with me tomorrow?” Dean can’t say he’d loved it, but he did it all summer and he can’t keep ignoring his own life every day. He says : “But I have school tomorrow.”

“You can skip a day, what’s school good for anyway. I can teach you everything you need to know.”

“Oh don’t make him hate school already, please. We have a kid who’s happy to go there, we’re lucky.”

“What if he becomes smarter than me?” John jokes.

“That’s the plan babe. Maybe he’ll even go to college. You’d like that?”

Dean doesn’t really know what to reply besides that he doesn’t even know what college is - is it a bigger school? But he still wonders if this is a wise dream to have if it means getting in the way of his dad’s plan for him. 

**_November 1983_ **

When Mary dies, Dean doesn’t see it. He feels the heat, holds Sammy tight, and he watches the flames eat away his very first home - his only home - and burn the past few months of peace - the only months of peace. The memories are clear in his mind, but he knows he has to close the drawer or he won’t be able to make it through. So when his dad drops them to the neighbors and tells Dean to wait a few days, Dean waits and forgets. 

The lesson will still stick to his skin like a birthmark: good things never last, for there is a monster hidden in every one, sleeping silently, just until the right bell rings. His dad’s wakes up again a few weeks later. And Dean is ready this time - he doesn’t let daydreams and false hopes get to him, there’s no looking behind him, no more believing he can fix this all by himself. He knows it’s pointless. This is a fight John is going to win, every time. So Dean stays aware, takes and forgets, because he won’t let Sam be the one bleeding.

* * *

For the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind

_**June 2006** _

The sun is barely up when Dean walks into Bobby’s kitchen, but the dimmed light is enough to find the bottles of whiskey which will keep him company today. They are out of beers in the fridge, so Dean assumes that’s what Bobby is getting - among others more appropriate sustenance. He falls on a chair and can only enjoy peace for a minute before he hears steps coming near. Apparently, 6am is the perfect time for sleep-deprived grieving boys to meet up. 

Dean looks down and appreciates that Sam doesn’t say anything to him - just walks by and sits on a couch. It’s weird between them and Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. But Sam will want to talk about it - this moment of quiet rêverie won’t last. So he might as well break it himself.

“Still pissed?” 

“You could say that.”

“Still not sorry?”

“Why would I be?”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters “right”. Because - _right_ , right? The fight from yesterday is fresh in his memory and he remembers the words Sam shouted at him - the words he had to listen to, the ones which pierced his chest harsher than bullets. This morning, though, Sam is silent - yet not sorry.

“I don’t understand what’s up with you, Sam.”

This does the trick - suddenly Sam’s gaze is fixed on him and Dean can see his anger in his eyes.

“What’s up with _me_?”

Dean swallows his last glass and pours himself another one - and he knows Sam doesn’t like to see him “drink and punch his pain away” as he put it oh so poetically yesterday, so maybe he takes his petty time to do so. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Dean, my dad _died_ two weeks ago.”

“A dad you hated. A dad you ran away from. So why are you suddenly his number one fan?”

“And _why_ are _you_ his _hater now_?”

Sam’s voice does this thing - Dean can’t tell which word he’s insisting on. It wakes something in his guts like a gunshot starts a race, but Dean focuses and doesn’t take the bait.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t talk shit about a dead man. And if you, of all people, see something good in him? Fine. Good for you.”

“No no no. You started this Dean. So let’s talk. I’m sure the Impala will still be there for you to destroy once we’re done.”

It takes everything Dean still has in himself to not break his glass right now. Still-

“I won’t talk about my feelings with you.”

“It’s okay” Sam’s voice is calmer now, close to the tone he uses when he’s bullshitting his way trying to psychoanalyze anyone he has met for more than five seconds. “I know how you feel.”

Dean scoffs. “Oh, you do?”

He doubts it. Scratch that - he knows Sam doesn’t. Sam can’t fully get him: he never could and never will. And that’s okay. He knows Dean like an older brother, like people who grow up together do, like family. He knows who Dean is today. But younger sibs forget there was always a time the others breathed and they didn’t. And one can read and hear all the stories, look at all the pictures, they still could never grasp what nor who was before them. 

“You don’t know shit, Sammy.”

  
  


_**August 1994** _

The motel John dropped them off to isn’t that bad, for once. Yet the door still speaks way too loudly when Dean leaves in the middle of the night. He doesn’t dare to check if it woke Sammy up, just takes his jacket and walks down the street. It’s way too hot around here, sure way way too hot for a leather jacket, but Dean had to leave his binder to dry in the shower and he won’t allow anyone to see even the shape of his boobs. No way. 

His dad said he could get top surgery when he’s eighteen. Dean thinks he could get it sooner - it wouldn’t be asking too much to fake an ID, con someone at pool in a bar, and fraud some poor guy’s health insurance. Dean understood the order pretty early, though: he can be who he wants, but John won’t be there to help him. Life’s hard. Life sucks. And Dean has to learn it by himself. So until then, Dean will get by with a too-worn binder and layers - and every once in a while he’ll get to have night fun.

He has checked the way when John drove them there, so it only takes him ten minutes to be in front of the nearest pharmacy. This one will be easy: the back door isn’t very hidden nor very hard to open - it’s almost welcoming him in. Dean is used to the way they order stuff, and he barely wanders around before he got what he came for - and then he’s out and back. 

This time he’s more careful with the door but there’s no way to keep it completely quiet - and Dean should have seen it coming, because the day has been too easy. His brother is up and watching him when he enters. 

“What were you doing?”

“Stargazing. Go to sleep, Sammy.”

Dean turns his back to him to hide the boxes of androtardyl deeper into his inside pockets before he drops the jacket and sits on his bed. Sam’s still not back under his covers, though. Instead, he accuses him.

“You always do that.”

“What?”

“Leaving me.”

It stings. “No I don’t.”

“Yes you do. You always leave and lie to me about where you’re going.” 

His heart is pumping and Dean takes a deep breath to prevent himself from replying. He just lies down, let it be - Sam is just upset, obviously, it’s been two days of eating cereals. 

“Do you think a child should be left alone at night? You know what’s out there.”

“Shut up Sammy.”

“I’m not like you, I don’t keep a gun under my pillow. If you’re not gonna be there, at least tell me what’s so important it can’t wait for the morning.”

Dean closes his eyes, breathes again. Again. Again. He doesn't like keeping things from his brother. He didn’t even like to avoid the monster question, nor the mom questions. He wishes he could tell him and it wouldn’t change anything - but Sam keeps asking stuff which will change everything. Dean doesn’t want to be the one breaking the bad news to him. And he sure doesn’t want to be the one telling him his brother is a fraud, a failed first attempt at a son. 

“We’re not having this conversation right now.”

“Then when? That’s right: never. Whatever, keep doing like dad, I’ll get by.”

Finally, Dean hears the other bed creaks. He pictures Sammy turning the other way around holding his anger and disappointment like a plush. Dad had said they'd be there for one afternoon before driving to a babysitter, and Dean had planned to go then, when Sam would have been safe. But sometimes he can't - Sometimes he wishes he was like his dad, with two halves, so he could separate them both and always be there for Sammy, never ever make him feel forgotten. Dean wants to cry - but boys don’t cry. So he hates himself instead. 

  
  


_**June 2006** _

His words are spit in Sam’s face and Dean sure hopes they sting. His brother frowns for a minute before getting up for a beer. Dean is staring as he waits. 

“Ok then. What don’t I know? Because from where I stand it sure looks like you’re emotionally in distress - aren’t you?”

“Just because you use smart words doesn’t mean you’re right. You think I’ve just lost everything, every sign in the right direction I ever had, right? You think I’m lost in a metaphorical forest filled with metaphorical wolves and I have no idea how to get out of it now that I don’t have anyone to follow. You think I’m gonna be a mess for months on end because I’ve never learned to think for myself - but now I have to. Am I close?”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“No Sammy. You think I’m drinking like a soldier who just lost his commander. You look at me, and you never see - _you’ve never seen_ \- anything else than cannon fodder and a dumb pawn in dad’s fucked up revenge game.”

“I’ve never said-”

“You don’t need to! See, I know how _you_ feel. You feel like you got me all figured out and you know exactly how to help me. But you don’t. Because I am something, I am _someone_ outside of dad.”

Dean doesn’t realize his arm jerks and he splatters the glass on the floor. He watches the tiny drops of blood running along his fingers and when they fall on the broken pieces, suddenly these are blue like a vase Mary used to own. The sun must be clear in the sky because Dean starts to see flashes, and he thinks the day will be hot, too, because already he can feel the heat compressing his chest. 

“Listen, Dean.” Sam’s voice struggles to be heard over the blizzard growing around Dean, but the softer tones manage to get through. “I just.. I don’t understand. This whole fight starts because, what? Because I’ve shown respect for dad and… All you’re saying, how does that mean I can’t respect the man now that he’s gone?”

“It means,” Dean takes a deep breath. “It means you can’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

  
  


**_August 2001_ **

Dean is getting freaking tired of doors. When Sam leaves just yet another shitty motel they both hate, when he walks through the damn door John told him never to cross, when he’s out and away and they can’t hear his steps anymore, nor can they hear the muffled voices which haunt such thin walls - when all is said and done and there is only silence and pain and a simple door in the way ; Dean almost breaks it. 

Instead all the adrenaline leaves him and his legs fall down while he takes all in. Sam is gone. For good. His heart is still beating fast and sweat hasn’t dried yet when John opens the door - the same cursed door - and leaves without a word. Dean has learned by now, and he knows John isn’t running after his son to apologize, to tell him he didn’t mean it and it’s okay and he can come back or even to beg him to stay. 

No - Dean knows John left the same way he did and has done all these years. Dean is burning, his nose is bleeding from the punch he took while trying - and failing - to fix it, and he thinks his heart is broken in that way which will never heal. And his dad left him alone, could have left him for dead, and Dean doesn’t know when he’ll come back and in what state - and he’s not sure if he feels safer now or then. 

Because this is Flagstaff all over again, and this time, too, Dean is convinced it is his fault. He couldn’t keep the peace in. He has never been the perfect son his dad wanted him to be nor the perfect older brother Sam needed him to be. He’s just a broken boy, cursed since birth, who keeps failing and falling because he never had wings in the first place. 

This is Flagstaff all over again - and buried memories are flashing back before his eyes. He never meant to dig open this grave, but here he is, sitting on the floor, a witness to his own life. He watches as he realizes Sam is gone and he tries everything to find him but he can’t figure out where the kid fucking went and the more days passed and the less Dean sleeps. Fourteen days felt like forty years in Hell and it was still, retrospectively, a happier time than when John came back to find him alone. Dean won’t sit and watch this part of the movie, but closing his eyes doesn’t prevent the same old fear from boiling inside of him.

Once the walls aren’t blurry anymore and Dean can finally stand on his legs - he feels disoriented. He stares at the emptiness where Sam’s bag was, just a minute ago, and where it will never be again. This he knows for sure, because this isn’t Flagstaff, not really - this is worse. What should he do, now that he no longer has a brother to watch out for? Now that he has failed his only duty? 

  
  


_**June 2006** _

The glass cracks under his shoes when Dean walks on it, but it is Sam’s hand on his elbow which stops him in his tracks. 

“ _Don’t_ you do that.”

The hold isn’t so tight Dean can’t get away when he turns around, still the look on Sam’s face makes Dean feel lucky his brother was never a puncher. 

“Don’t _put me aside_ from this. You say I don’t understand, fine, then _make me_ understand. Stop playing “the oldest know best” card just because you can’t be honest with me. It’s like you _want_ me to be the black sheep of the family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s not pretend, ok? We both know that’s always been my role. _You_ know everything, you _got_ everything. And I got to _shut_ my mouth.”

The memories Dean buried don’t come back now that he’s asking for it - he’d like to rewind the film some more, and figure out when Sam was ever _not_ the favorite. Dean has always known, in a not-too deep level, that Sam and him didn’t exactly have the same childhood. They've shared family holidays and crappy food, but Sam doesn’t remember any of it fondly - maybe Dean shouldn’t, maybe Sam should ; Dean doesn’t know anymore. Yet Dean thinks he did his best for Sammy to know he was the one to be protected, he was the one being cared for. He must have failed his job more times than he counted. 

“You think I got anything?” in disbelief, the words barely leave his lips. 

Sam looks as offended as if Dean had just said computers or some nerd shit sucked. 

“You got dad’s car, dad’s music,” Sam is actually counting on his fingers, “dad’s jacket, dad’s guns, you got to _know_ mom. You were a better part of the family than I ever was. What _don’t_ you have?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Love? College? A future of my own? Isn’t that what you were _having_ when you left me alone?”

“When I left yo- I went to Stanford _by myself_. You weren’t alone, Dean. You stayed with dad.”

“And how, exactly, do you think it went? You think we went to baseball games, have brunch every Sundays and shared some family secrets behind your back?” 

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I get it, we can’t talk. Whatever.”

This time, and before he can realize it’s happening, it’s Dean’s own hand which grabs an arm, and Sam has barely turned when Dean punches him in the face. Sam stumbles backwards but doesn’t fall, and Dean is so close - _oh so close_ \- to throw another punch and kick him on the ground and beat him up until his blood paints the floor and his bruises his skin. 

He doesn’t. He’s retching before he even feels the pain on his knuckles - and he hates himself. 

“Sammy, I…”

The flashes are back like tiny sparkly dust in the heavy air, and Dean is starting to think he’s the only one seeing them. His anger is still floating around next to them, so Dean forces himself to clench his fists when he stares at Sam. 

“Real talk? If you want to do the right thing, the Christian thing, or- I don’t know- I don’t care. You go to church and pray and tell God about how much you regret never telling the guy you loved him. I won’t stop you, you do you.” 

“But don’t go around making excuses for him. Don’t you _ever again_ say to my face that dad was right to do anything he did. Don’t you _dare_ to expect my forgiveness to go with yours. It won’t. We’re clear?”

Sam nods. “We’re clear.” His nose is bleeding and when Dean opens the door he’s thinking he should stay instead and get the first-aid kit for the kid. He closes the door behind him.

  
  


_**December 2011** _

Surely Freud was an only child - Dean would bet money on that. The guy wanted to fuck his mom so bad he wanted to kill his dad - well, it's his issue. But it's a bit presumptuous to assume everyone would feel the same: there are plenty of people to be pissed at - especially in one's family. After all, weren't Cain and Abel brothers?

* * *

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal

  
  


_**April 2007**_

Oliver won’t hurt anyone else, or at least Dean sure hopes the guy didn’t leave anything other than his bones behind because he can’t stick around to find out. Not tonight. He’s already not sure to find who he’s been looking for by the time he’s parked in the city.. The scenery is turning into straight lines around him as he drives as fast as he can. 

By now, Dean is quite used to being startled by the sudden stain of a beige trenchcoat in the corner of his eye - still, he momentarily eases off the pedal when it happens.

“Hi Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“I didn’t think you'd join me for the ride. Let me guess: you’re making sure I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Did you?”

“Nope.”

The plan has been set a few months ago and Dean hasn’t walked away from it since. It’s been a long chase and Dean had to hunt on the side to deal with the never-ending wait without destroying everything else in his life. It’s been rough, and some of the days sure made him doubt. Yet he’s sure. And Cas knows that too, as he’s followed every step Dean took to end up there. 

“I thought so. Still, it is family. I know how much you’ve shared.”

It’s not always easy to know what Cas got on his mind or why he’s pushing certain topics. This time, Dean has a feeling it isn’t truly a matter of making conversation, and more a way to remind Dean of his own convictions - just in case, just before he does what he thought he could never do. 

“Did we, though? I used to think that. That, you know, we had good times and all, but lately.. Man, lately all I see is violence and pain and fear. And.. I mean.. the _things_ he said to me.”

“It wasn’t fair-”

“Damn right it wasn’t! Fuck sometimes I just wish I’d never came back to him. Should have just let him stay away like he always wanted so badly to be. I just trapped myself back.”

“It’s not your fault.”

On good days, Dean can remember that. But for now most of the days are grey. Not even some dark edging-on-black grey; it’s a pale stormy grey, one put on paper with watercolor and which is now slowly fading away. And this grey needs to be reminded that other colors are out there. 

“Yeh. Yeh you’re right. Not mine.” Dean wishes it’d be that easy - to acknowledge the harm done and to be done with it. “But I’m still fucked up, ain’t I? Who cares about the why and how? Point is: I’ll never be able to think of myself first. Not as long as Sam's alive.”

If Cas disagrees, he doesn’t say it - which is a pretty good hint that he doesn’t. A part of Dean does think that Cas knows it already. Maybe he has figured all of this out before he even dragged his ass out of Hell. Maybe Cas was, actually, perched on his shoulder, silently guiding him to a clearer path.

“And you think _this_ will magically fix you?”

“Hell no. Revenge is poison, that's one of the things my dad taught me.” 

But Dean has to do it anyway. He wouldn’t say it’s his destiny or in his blood, yet even after everything Dean can feel his pulse under his skin and he gets its message: there are cycles which need to be broken, rhythms which should have never been played. And it isn’t - shouldn’t be - his role to destroy it, but he feels like he’ll die and will never ever be able to move on if he doesn’t cross this finish line. 

“What else would you want me to do, Cas?”

“I don’t know. Drive to the Grand Canyon. Go to college. Appreciate life.”

“And leave a monster out there?”

Cas’s only answer is a tired shrug. Something feels wrong even to Dean when he says it - these words he’s heard and told many, many times, now aren’t his anymore. It isn’t actually why he’s going to do this - and they both know it.

“To tell you the truth... I'm not sure I can do that. Get a dog and a normal life.” Dean scoffs. “Hell, get the life I _deserved_. But you know.. it's just too late for me.”

His eyes leave the road for a too-long second where they instead focus on Cas’s to try to find the understanding they need. But Cas, always the wise one, acknowledges their pain and offers them comfort. 

“It’s never too late, Dean.”

“Then why won’t you? Don’t you want this too, Cas? No more chasing God and fighting your brothers, but a house and a garden and someone you love who loves you back?”

Dean looks once again, but this time Cas’s blue eyes don't join. They’re fixed on his lap and his hands as these catch an answer Dean won’t hear. 

“So. Murder it is, then.”

“It’s not technically murder.” Cas still feels the need to clarify. 

  
  


_**October 2006** _

This is one of the darker grey days - Dean feels it as soon as he wakes up. The sheets are drenched with sweat and he can’t quite remember what he dreamt about - he sure won’t pry into his skull to find out. The sun hits his face when he opens the curtains and he’s glad to be graced with numerous cars instead of the perspective of another ghoul or vampire to fight and kill. Somehow, even if Dean won’t admit it out loud, Bobby was right to force him into a break. 

It’s frustrating, still. When Dean arrives downstairs Bobby’s head is buried into books and Dean craves to go over there and help, in any way he can. “Do you have work for me?” is his new “good morning”. It’s been three days and each time Bobby’s answer is the same. 

“Nope.”

Apparently, showing up dead drunk and bloody at your dad’s place is enough to make him worry. Dean doesn’t remember what happened so he thinks he’s ok - but according to Bobby this is _exactly_ what’s concerning about that. Not much the knife cut or the wet clothes or the text he sent to Sam - a very eloquent “fukcyou” that Dean can’t bring himself to regret - but the full days of nothing in his memory. When Dean is honest with himself, he does acknowledge that it is concerning. 

“Come on Bobby, I can at least read. My brain is still working. A bit.”

“I love you, son. But this bullshit doesn’t take with me. You know what I did tonight?”

“Work?”

“Yes. I stayed here, at my desk, for hours on end. Listening to you scream. You don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine. But now you tell me: how will _hunting_ help with that mess, Dean? Because from where I’m standing, it does more bad than good to you. Always has been.”

Guilt tastes sour, especially mixed with the regular dose of self-hating and its droplet of being-faced-with-truth. It’s always a bitch to swallow, too. So Dean sighs and goes outside with the cars, trying to switch whatever-is-wrong-with-him with some more gasoline. 

Bobby is right - that’s the issue. And Dean wishes he could get the hell out of here - of this job, this life - but something is holding him back. He should know, more than anyone, that unfinished business is exactly what haunts you and turns you into a monster. Dean is giving himself one more year, tops, before it’s too late for him. He takes off his watch before he sleeps, because its _tic tic tic_ could as well be hellhounds’ bark. So yeh, Bobby is right. But Dean has no idea what to do besides waiting for D-Day and trying every night to survive his nightmares. 

  
  


_**January 2007** _

When Dean hears footsteps behind him his hand reaches for his gun by instinct. He’s been to Bobby’s several times in the past months, and surprisingly it _has_ been times of rest. Still, Dean’s brain is still ringing “danger” at any chance it gets. 

“Calm down, tiger. I won’t hurt you. Even if you’d deserved it.”

Jo’s voice definitely doesn’t fit a danger and Dean puts back his gun while she’s sitting next to him.

“What did I do now?”

Her eyes fall back into him and stares - dead serious.

“You ate all the chips.”

“Guilty. But not remorseful.”

“You still owe me.” Jo puts two bottles on the table and offers him a smug smile. “Nice undercut.”

“Come on, does everyone have to comment?”

Dean touches his newly longer hair, now starting to fall forehead - self-conscious. Ellen already ruffled it and told him it suited him, but Dean is still hesitant. Now his hand can run into his hair and he actually feels it in between his fingers. And he has never felt hair like that, not besides strangers’ hair during sex. It’s nice, but Dean can’t help but wonder if it doesn’t look.. _not_ like him. Girly, even.

“We’ve never seen you with anything other than your soldier cut. We’re just supporting your fashion choices.”

“Yeh yeh. Give me that.”

He takes Jo’s bottle and opens it with his ring before opening his. 

“To family?”

“To family.”

There is something about this moment - feeling the sun on his back, cheering with his sister in the garage, knowing both Bobby and Ellen are inside and probably arguing in this affectionate way. Peace - he would even dare to think. When the drink touches his tongue, Dean immediately spits it on the gravel.

“Is that coke?”

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one who said you were done with the good stuff.”

“When did I say that?”

“This morning. And two weeks ago. And the month before that.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in this “you-got-me-there” way, a very useful tool allowing him to _not_ verbally recognize both that Jo’s right and that he sucks at rehab. He drinks more coke. 

“So,” Jo starts and Dean knows what she’s going to mention. “Still not talking to Sam?”

“And not planning to start.”

“What happened? I know we’re not supposed to talk about that but… I can’t ignore how you’re doing since then.”

The label from his bottle - clearly stating “coke” and mentioning nothing about beer, now that he’s staring at it - is under attack by Dean’s fingers. Jo is also focusing on her drink - coke as well, Dean notices - and moving it in circles, probably wondering whether she made a mistake by mentioning the big elephant in the room. She didn’t.

“It’s not since the fight. It’s since John’s death.”

Sure there’s been this unwritten rule for a while that grief had done quite a number on Dean and it was better advised to not mention it, not to his face at least, in order to protect every object and body in a 2 miles radius. But now Dean thinks about it without breaking into tears, and he can even stay a few days sober. Things aren’t great, but they’re better.

“Sam thinks mom’s death made John this way. He thinks that’s fair, that he would have done the same - hell, he _did_ the same after Jess. He just doesn’t get it, you know?

“Wait you’re saying.. your dead father is putting distance between the two of you?”

“No. But the alive father.. yeh.”

There’s always been an ease in talking to Jo. Even back when they first met and she put a rifle on his back - if she had asked, he would have told her all his secrets. 

“Since he died..” Dean starts hesitantly, “I’ve been having nightmares, as you heard. But also these.. these kinds of flashes and memories coming back. Stuff I had no idea about but stuff which fucked me up, you know?” The words are still getting stuck in his throat and he has to force them out to keep going. “It’s not just some daddy issues about growing up hunting and seeking revenge, and learning how to build a gun before you know how to count. There’s.. more. And Sam _can’t_ get it. And it’s okay, I’m not gonna tell him - who knows if he’ll even believe me. But there’s a distance between us now. I _want_ a distance to be there. Because I can’t keep up, I can’t _breathe_ if he’s too close to me.”

“So you’re hunting… _him_?”

“Yeh.”

“To breathe?”

“To be free.”

  
  


_**November 2001** _

“ _What_ did I _just tell_ you _Dean_?”

John’s voice does this thing where Dean can’t tell which word is the key one, nor if the words matter at all. Sometimes it’s only about the shouting, and it’s better to look down, avoid eye contact, whisper “sorry sir” and move on. Sometimes there is actually a new order there, and Dean has to figure out how to ask John to be clearer without setting him off. Sometimes, he’s sure, there is concern and worry, because Dean did a reckless thing and John can’t bear to lose another son - that’s what Dean holds on to at night. 

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Don’t_ be _sorry_ , _do better_ . It escapes _because_ of _you_ , you’re too _slow_ . Didn’t _I teach_ you to _shoot_?”

Dean fucked up. He knows he did. He wasn’t fast enough and it could have injured them. And now they have to stay longer whereas the job could have been done tonight. It still isn’t fair for his dad to doubt his skills, though. He isn’t nine anymore and he hates that John can make him feel that way - even now. 

Even when he hears his own voice Dean hears it higher than he remembered. It lacks this depth he had gained with the years and the confidence he had grown too. Now everything is falling back into the rough times of teenagehood, back when Dean had to pass all of his dad’s tests. Since Sammy left, John has been coming up with new rules every day. And Dean knows that during each drive, during each fight, during each night, they’re both thinking the same thing: if Sam was here… 

Well, he isn’t. He lets them down. And Dean is the one who’s still shooting, still hunting, still _here_. But even when he sits shotgun in the Impala and tells his dad about the research he did - he knows John is never completely looking at him. He knows he looks at Dean and doesn’t see a son - he sees another gun in another hand. And he knows the only times John will stare into his green eyes is to look for the shadow of someone else, because his dad never stopped wishing for the return of the true good son. 

Well. John is stuck with Dean.

  
  


_**April 2007** _

The lack of sleep isn’t hitting Dean when he enters the abandoned barn. He doesn’t understand what’s up with demons and meeting in boring places - this one, especially, is full of huge containers which have probably not been opened in years, the lights are off and Dean is only able to see because of the broken glass from the roof. Dean doesn’t know shit about architecture, but it seems like a weird housing choice. Does Hell ruin all sense of taste? Or is it an Azazel thing? 

The wind outside is screaming and from his spot perched on the frame Dean can feel it hit the building. He can’t tell if the weather is pushing him inside or trying to warn him - like whispers telling him to stay in his room. It seems Dean learned nothing from his early years as he still can’t understand what the hints are trying to say. Storms are to be expected during the night. Sweet. But is he going to be struck by thunder or is his past going to turn to flames? 

The full moon is getting higher on the sky, so Dean checks one last time that he still has the Colt. He has painted black devil’s trap basically everywhere and, for once, he has the draft of a plan: be patient and shoot. And then, finally, the familiar yellow eyes show up and stop. There’s a smile on Azazel’s face - the kind Dean knows oh too well, the kind he hates because it’s not genuine, it’s a “you don’t want to be in this room right now” kind of smile. 

“Dean.” His voice resonates against the wall and Dean can hear him clearly even with the wind outside. “It’s been a while.”

“Missed me?”

“Missed you daddy?”

No one can see it but Dean rolls his eyes as he stands up and starts to move. 

“Come on, we’re not gonna do that again. You, talking shit about me with my father’s face and his… everything. We’re past that, aren’t we?”

Dean lets himself fall and holds onto a frame with his arms, slowly moving to the left to reach the top of one of the containers. He can’t make too sudden moves or Azazel will hear where he is. 

“You’re right, it’s not as fun when he’s not there to hear it. Still, that’s my favorite foreplay.”

“Really? Get better sex, man.”

Azazel had an appointment with other demons, so Dean is trying to watch out for any sudden move. Back ups will come, and they won’t be dumb enough to fall for the other devil’s trap when their chief is clearly stuck in one. They’ll tiptoe around and free him - and Dean can’t have that. 

“Blablabla. Won’t you rather talk about all the news I’ve learned since I permanently bought this meat suit?”

“Like what? I thought you got I was daddy’s little blunt instrument. There’s not much more to say.”

“Don’t you want to know how he saw you? Behind the hunting and revenge. Back when mommy wasn’t ashes.”

Dean jumps onto another container and looks around once more. He has checked a third of the place and there’s still no hint of other demons - no shadow, no sulfur, nothing. At least Azazel doesn’t seem eager to kill him, and as annoying as listening to him is.. at least Dean can hold to the fact it’s the last words he’d ever say. 

“Truly tempting but I’ll pass. I already know the gist.”

Then. On his right. Dean can see two people seeming to wait - for what? Dean frowns. Something doesn’t add up. 

“You know he hated you, then. Ever since you could talk. He only saved you because you weren’t done being useful. But he wished you were born different until his last breath. He tried so hard to make you normal, more like Sammy.”

A thunder cracks and Dean jumps on the ground, his hand on the Colt. Azazel can’t move but he still has some use of his demon mojo, so Dean has to come closer without being noticed - nor by Azazel, nor by his two back ups. 

“Look,” and Dean starts to play with the tone of his voice - getting louder or deeper - to twist the perception of where he is. “You love the sound of my old man’s voice, I get it. But can we speed up the speech?”

“Why? You got a hot date waiting for you?”

There’s a flap of wings just there, showing up just outside the trap, which makes Azazel’s head turn. He shoves Castiel against the wall and doesn’t hear Dean stepping in on another side. 

“Exactly.”

Dean sees his father’s eyes staring at him in surprise, and the edge of his mouth is starting to go up in a mock figure - and Dean shoots in the way his dad taught him to. 

The demon’s hold on Cas leaves, and Dean understands the angel must have seen the two other demons before he did and put them asleep - or dead, for all he knows. He’s focused on the hole on Azazel’s face - his father’s face - and can’t quite believe it. It’s not John that Dean just killed. John has been dead for a few months, since in an unexpected and unbelievable move he offered his own body to save Dean. But it is John’s body Dean is looking at. 

“Centuries-old demon, big boss of the son of bitches, and he loses at hide-and-seek.. Moral of the story: don’t get cocky.”

So this is it - the twist in Dean’s guts is unmistakable. His body is a neon sign asking him - begging him - to quit hunting now. He’s exhausted and numb and only enjoyed it when the powder on his guns was acid on his hands. 

See, John was always a dancing coin from which Dean could only see one face. Head - John’s orders are gold. Tail - John is one of the monsters. Dean never flipped the coin to make sure which was which, yet now he knows following in these particular footsteps was always going to taste like bleach. Even though it isn’t John’s revenge Dean put an end to. He didn’t do it _for_ John at all. He shot the yellow-eyed motherfucker who killed his mom and burnt his home, that’s what he did. Dean knows, looking at John’s greyish hair and the lack of light in the eyes which always terrified him, that first and foremost he shot the motherfucker who destroyed his only chance at happiness. 

_**December 2011** _

Dean takes his glasses off before running a hand over his face to get rid of the sheer exhaustion of the day. He’s been sitting on his desk for hours now, head stuck between books speaking nonsense, fingers switching from one pen to another, and he’s only just now realizing the sun is down. An empty plate on his left does suggest Cas passed by - eventually - and Dean ate - eventually - except if Miracle took a trip into his room. 

If it wasn’t for the warm comfort of the two-bedrooms apartment they can afford, all the pictures of his family and the Grand Canyon pinned on his wall, or the new ring on his left hand, Dean could think he was still living the same life he was raised to live. Sometimes he almost forgets he isn’t hoarding knowledge about every kind of mythology and gods who could wander the Earth anymore. And he isn’t sleeping on the cheapest mattress - he upgraded to the second cheapest. This isn’t a house - not yet - but this is a home. 

In a way though, Dean never stopped chasing monsters - he just switched which kind. And looking at the text he was just reading, sometimes it can be as nerve-wracking as the old-days. Dean is pretty sure if he keeps going through more of some psychoanalytic bullshit and has to read one more time the words father or castration he will snap - and not in the giggling-like-a-twelve-year-old way, more in the finding-Freud’s-grave-to-burn-and-salt-his-bones-just-for-kicks.

“You know what?” He speaks out loud to no one. “I’ll just fail this course. I’m done with daddy issues.”

Dean closes the book and stands up to clean out his plate when Cas is suddenly right there in the doorway.

“What are you talking about? You’ve been top of the class since you got in.”

“I know right? I’m awesome.”

Yet when Dean sent his application he never thought he’d fit so well. Sure, he’s older than his classmates and got into a few heated arguments with professors, but managing family life and study is way easier than, say, stop the Apocalypse or whatever. And more importantly: Dean loves it.

“That’s probably why you are demanded in Claire’s room.”

Cas takes the plate out of his hands and stands back to allow Dean to leave.

“Ow, and here I thought you came to kiss me good night.”

“No. It just appears you are the favorite.”

“I mean,” Dean chuckles “you did kick her father’s ass.”

“He was _possessed_.”

“He was,” Dean turns off the desk lamp and follows Cas down the corridor. “But he was still her father, at some level.” He turns and walks backward to make sure Cas can see his teasing smile when he adds: “You don’t like it when _I_ insult your dad, do you?”

“Because it’s a _blasphemy_.” 

They part way at the top of the stairs and when Dean blows Cas a kiss, the angel flips him off without even looking back.

A subtle knock is enough for Dean to inform Claire he’s coming in. The fluorescent stars on the roof are the only light once the door is closed, but Dean can see that she’s looking at him and inviting him to join her. It’s almost a ritual between them by now. So Dean follows each step carefully, hoping the spell will work once more. He lays next to her on her bed and she nestles against him, sniffling in his t-shirt. 

“Another nightmare?”

Claire nods. It’s the second one this week.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he murmurs into her hair as he drops a kiss there. “I still got some too.”

They fall asleep together, because Dean will be damned if he lets one more kid suffer by themselves. He learns in college all the names for it - post-traumatic disorder, addiction, dissociative episode, major depression disorder, panic attacks, bipolar disorder, and so on - but none of these few letters and shopping lists of symptoms in the DSM come close to describing what they’re like. Though if you ask Dean it’s pretty simple: they’re caused by the most evil monsters he ever came across.

**Author's Note:**

> if you've read everything good for you!! don't ask me why cas and claire are there if the fic is a s2 replacement - i just love them and dean deserves a family  
> my hottest spn take is that dean would be a child therapist and a foster parent <3 (and that sam should apologize)


End file.
